Blood Donation

It is rational to be a freeloader and not donate blood despite being willing to accept it, despite it being not ethically permissible. In fact, it is likely more rational to be a freeloader than not. This is because rationality can be defined as making the best use of reason or logic. Not donating blood, while still being fully willing to accept in the case of need, is most rational because it accords with logical steps. This is because freeloading makes it possible for someone to potentially reap the benefits of blood donation, without causing themselves any trouble ever. One would never donate any blood and would spare themselves of the trouble of physically going to donate blood and possibly suffering from minuscule side-effects like temporary dizziness. Moreover, even if the situation arose and that person required a blood transfusion, they would then accept it and gain the benefits of it. This is very rational on the part of the person.

A person can rely on their fellow citizens to donate blood without ever doing themselves. That person can then potentially reap the rewards of his fellow citizens while having never caused any problem or inconvenience, as donating blood may be perceived to be, unto himself.

It is only true when personal benefits and costs are considered. Once factors, like societal moral and ethical ones, are considered, the questions becomes more complex and difficult. Once ethics are included, the question is no longer purely logical. Logically, it makes sense to do less and get more, which is essentially what the concept of freeloading is in this context. However, once a ethical viewpoint is included, it can be seen that not donating blood, but being willing to accept it in the case of a transfusion, is wrong and not morally acceptable. This is because it is impossible to justify that one should accept blood when in need whilst never donating it themselves, if they are physically capable.

The fact is that a healthy person, who is physically capable of donating blood, has a very small chance of ever requiring blood. However, that same person may be mildly troubled by donating blood, either by small physical side-effects, like temporary dizziness, or simply by the less convenient allocation of time (i.e. That person could be doing something more pleasurable with their time than donating blood). Moreover, even if that person did eventually need blood, they would most likely have some because of the goodwill of other people.

Therefore, when considering the personal benefits, it is completely rational to not donate blood because the chances of one needing it are smaller than the potential inconveniences faced when donating it, and because blood will likely be there for you should you need it.

This story changes especially when you consider the benefits to others. It becomes realized that other people can potentially rely on this resource and that, without donations, these people could suffer severe consequences. These consequences would not be brought about as a result of their own doing, but rather because of the fact that people did not want to donate themselves – a sort of collective action problem.

If all people believed that they did not need to donate blood because someone else would do it for them, then there would be little to no blood supply. This would cause a tremendous detriment to others (patients) in need of blood. So, from a societal point of view, not only is failing to donate blood immoral, it is irrational, too. No benefits exist to others when a person does not donate blood.

Overall, it is important to recognize the difference between rational and ethical. Though freeloading is rational, particularly in personal circumstances, it cannot be ethical under most circumstances. Also, it needs to be noted that though freeloading is rational on an individual level because it spares one from a small chore, it is completely irrational on a societal one because it fails to produce any benefits to other people.

It can be considered ethically wrong to not donate blood for a variety of reasons, but many scenarios need to be considered before making a definitive statement. Two major arguments exist to help determine the morality of donating blood. The first is the beneficence argument. This argument states that whenever a person has the ability to commit an act of good, they have a moral obligation to do so.

The second argument regards the wrongness of freeloading. This argument focuses more on immorality than morality (the beneficence argument does the opposite, in a way.) It states that it is ethically wrong, and makes you a freeloader, to reap the benefits of a collective good, to which others are contributing to, without contributing to it yourself. This argument elaborates that someone is only entitled to as big a portion of the collective good, as they themselves contributed.

Both of these reasonings do not apply to everyone. Most notably, a person who is physically incapable of doing good, as per the beneficence argument, or a person who is physically incapable of contributing to the collective good, as per the wrongness of freeloading argument, is not applicable under the reasonings. These people cannot contribute because they are simply incapable of doing so for no purposeful reason (since being sick cannot be intentionally self-imposed or purposeful).

When other reasons, like religious ones, come into mind, the arguments have a divergence in their beliefs. If someone follows the beliefs of a Jehovah's Witness, then that person is not permitted by their religion to donate, nor receive, blood. Under the beneficence argument, the Jehovah's Witness is still subject to donating blood. This is because blood is essential to life, and can therefore save the lives of people who need it for a medical reason. Any Jehovah's Witness, who is physically capable of donating blood thus has an obligation to donate blood because that provides society with a collective good and that is then their moral obligation. Under the alternative argument however, a Jehovah's Witness is not obliged to donate blood. This is because their religion also prevents them from accepting blood. This means that a Jehovah's Witness, though they would never donate blood, would also never accept blood. Therefore, they would not be freeloading because one is not a freeloader if they do not contribute to a system they do not use.

In another scenario, where the blood supply is already large and sufficient, the arguments have reversed stances. Under the beneficence argument, this scenario would not require anyone to donate blood. This is because their particular donation would not benefit the collective good, and is therefore unnecessary ethically. However, under the wrongness of freeloading argument, a person would still be required to donate blood if they ever need to use it. This is because if they did not donate blood, they would be using a public service without contributing to it equally and thus freeloading.

Selling blood, instead of donating it leads to a more complex situation. Under the beneficence argument, if you sell your blood and it ends up in the same place that it would have if you had donated it, then you are still providing the same good to people and fulfilling your moral obligation. However, if your blood ends up in a different place, where it is not providing a good, or as great a good, to society as it would have had you simply donated it, then you have not done good to society and therefore cannot be justified under this argument. For the wrongness of freeriding argument, the answer it situation-dependent. If the blood is sold and ends up in the same place that it will be withdrawn from one day by you should you require it, then it is not a problem because you are contributing to the collective good that you are using. Alternatively, if it is sold and ends up in a different place than the one where you withdraw the blood you need from, then you are freeriding because you are withdrawing the blood you need from a place to which you did not contribute.

In another scenario one may consider paying someone to donate blood on their behalf. This is ethically unjustified under the beneficence argument unless you are physically incapable of donating blood yourself. Under this viewpoint, you can still do more good if you go and donate blood by yourself, so if you simply pay someone else to complete this on your behalf, you are basically motivating that person to fulfill their moral duty under the beneficence argument, as oppose to actually satisfying your own. If however, you were incapable of donating blood for physical reasons and paid someone to donate on your behalf, then you are doing a good for society in the best way you possibly can, so you would justified as fulfilling your moral obligation. Alternatively, under the wrongness of freeloading argument, you would be backed-up ethically by paying someone to donate on your behalf. This is because if you ever required blood yourself, you would still have contributed to the collective good, albeit in a financial way. That financial way would have led to the same result as you physically donating the blood yourself and you could not be considered a freeloader.

Finally, under the beneficence argument, participating at a blood clinic as a trained medical professional would not exempt you from donating blood yourself. This is because this argument requires that any good that ca be performed by an individual be performed in order for that individual to satisfy their moral obligation. So, if someone can both participate in a blood donation clinic as a medical professional, and donate blood, which are both good things, then that person has a ethical obligation to do both things. Likewise, under the wrongness of freeloading argument, the person would still not be exempt from donating blood. This is because if that person requires blood, they would taking it from a collective good to which they had never directly contributed to (the only direct contribution would be donating your blood), thus making them a freeloader.

Donating blood and being vaccinated are inherently different things. Being vaccinated for a contagious disease, like the mumps, makes it significantly less likely that you will get the disease and therefore be a carrier for it. This means that you will be less likely to make other people sick. Donating blood, however, is different. By not donating blood, you are not making anyone sick or worse off, you are simply making it more difficult for someone who requires blood to get better. So the difference is that in the vaccination scenario, you are directly contributing to causing people to be sick and worse off. In the donating blood scenario, you are simply indirectly making it more difficult for those who are already sick to improve their condition. Therefore, it seems sensible to prevent people from getting others sick and compromising their own health by making vaccination mandatory. But, it does not seem sensible to mandate donating blood because that would not prevent people from falling ill, nor would it compromise the health of healthy people – it would simply make it far more difficult for people to improve their health when they require blood.

Confessions of a Racist?

So, it looks like you know now. I'm a racist.

Apparently, that is!

Of course, to myself, I am not, in any way, racist. In fact, I would consider myself someone who strives for bettering the racial situation in society. I don't condone racism, and I would, of course, love to see it eradicated. I would love to see a dawning of a more perfect world, where no one is judged on the color of their skin. I would love all this, but my peer(s) believe me to be part of the problem.

Before the gist of my rambling begins, let me explain what inspired me to write this post after my rather long hiatus. You see, with this being the last summer break before my adult, university life begins, I decided to really exploit it. I spent little time at home, much to the dismay of some, and even tired myself out some days. I would go out, spend lots of time with friends and partake in very fun activities. I experienced many "firsts" this summer break, which is rather reasonable considering my age. Needless to say, this break expired very quickly, and I felt as though I hadn't caught up on nearly as much rest as I should have. That being said, I would rather feel like I did enough than as if I rested enough. Rest is for seniors. Plus, with the way I've organized my university schedule, I won't be missing out on much rest during the school year either, so I'll have time for recovery.

That is why this darling blog has suffered from a lack of words. I've just been tremendously busy. I expected to have a miserable summer break. One in which I would be cooped up and bored since my main friends had dispersed on various vacations, but it proved to be quite fun! And I still have a few things to do to top off my joy!

One of the sadder parts of my break has been watching my friends go away. Many of them, thanks to the academically rigorous mindset of my school, have chosen to go far away from Vancouver to study. 

It's a plan that doesn't make much sense to me. After all, you're always told that adapting to university life will be hard. Why make things even more difficult by forcing yourself to adapt to a new city and environment as well? My family is in Vancouver, my friends are in Vancouver (at least most of them are now), a decent university is in Vancouver, so it just doesn't make sense for me to leave. Then again, I'm not overly ambitious. But I digress.

Considering that I selected friends in high school who were, likewise, not overly ambitious (ok, that's an understatement, my friends were not ambitious at all), I didn't have to endure too much heartache from seeing people go. That is, because not many of them left. Only 3 people I care about have gone, or are soon to go. Their names are, in order of departure, Lucia, Steven and Nima.

Lucia is my therapist, who was discussed in my posts about my prom trip, and most specifically, the post "A Chat with my Therapist". I went to two sleepovers with Lucia and the same prom goers from the prom trip. Those only further cemented my adoration for Lucia. Then we have have Steven. Steven is one of the truest and kindest friends I ever found. He cared so deeply for me, and was so selfless around me that I began to feel as though he was the closest thing I would ever find to a soulmate. I felt as though every trouble he had was one of my own. Now I'm beginning to re-jerk my own tears, so I'll stop talking about him until I have to again. Finally, there's Nima. Nima has been a good friend to me since I started my new high school in grade 9. In grade 11, Nima began boarding school on Vancouver Island, but we kept so closely in touch that I never even noticed his absence too much. Moreover, with Vancouver Island being so close to Vancouver, Nima visited every long weekend and spent considerable time with me. He played guitar and I sang, and our relationship was very relaxed and hippy-ish.

We made a point of spending 3 whole days with Lucia before she walked through the departures gate at the airport to her new home of Mississauga. We celebrated her birthday by playing lazer tag, watching a movie and ending the night with a wonderfully authentic Japanese dinner and poker. I was unable to join the next day, but the girls spent it kayaking. And on the third day, the girls were treated to a fabulous (if I do say so myself) rooftop lunch and tour of downtown by yours truly. Then they treated me to a night of karaoke, which was made more fun by the lack of talent. (Note: the highest mark was 39/100). I saw Lucia off with a hug, an exchange of Skype addressess, and a promise of more fun to come for Christmas vacation. 

Yesterday, I went to see off Steven. It was one of the most heart-wrenching things I've ever had to do. Now, before you roll your eyes and laugh at the obvious inconsistencies amidst my hormone levels, note that I am a teenager. Of course I am prone to exaggeration and drama. 

I was not alone in my escorting of Steven to the airport. I was joined by two fellows from school. Between me and Steven's fond recollections, the two fellows would chime in. Okay, that's all a lie. The majority of our expedition was spent listening to me talk. I had a lot to say, as per usual. Steven and I restated, for the millionth time, our promise to write each other a letter per Friday. Can you tell why we get along so swimmingly?

We got to raiding a home decor store. Really, we just wanted to use their display chairs as seating. There we all began abusing the powers of social media. That morphed into chatting about something. That something led to me remembering a conversation I had once had with one of the present fellows. That conversation, which took place a number of months earlier while we were in school, ended very badly. That is how most conversations about "touchy" subjects end with this girl. She is somewhat of a hipster, but she tends to lose her cool incredibly fast. She is one of those people that considers herself a champion of everyone's rights. Feminists, minority groups, disabled people, she represents them all. And not just a mildly, no, she represents these groups passionately. She pours so much into her defenses of these people that she sometimes changes skin color. (I mean she blushes). It's awe-inducing. 

As our conversation changed course, we found ourselves discussing how beautiful it is for South-East Asian women to dye their hair blonde. I remembered that this girl once got very defensive when she showed me a photo of an Asian model, with blonde hair. Upon seeing the photo, I remarked "Oh, she's very pretty for an Asian girl!" This really struck a chord with her. How dare I say "...for an Asian girl"? I remembered our discussion and recalled how seemingly banal and stupid it was. I also recalled how in the right I was, so I took the opportunity of being surrounded by 3 Asians to pose the question once more. To clarify: Steven, and both of these girls were Asian.

I asked the group if saying "...for an Asian girl" was so offensive. Steven didn't speak on the subject, rather, he didn't have the chance to, because the girls' faces turned red with rage before I even finished my question.

Steven is generally laid back that's why I love him. He doesn't take things too seriously. And I do not recall him taking offence to anything I ever said. Perhaps that was because he loved me, perhaps it was because he didn't want to enter into debates with me and perhaps it was because he genuinely was not easily offended. I don't know, but I liked it. 

Anyways, the originally offended culprit stated that she didn't even want to discuss this again because it just got her so angry. But, once the other girl spoke up, the original girl couldn't resist retelling her problems with my words.

Saying that someone is pretty "for an Asian girl" constitutes the belief that the Caucasian race is superior to the Asian. By saying what I had said, I had cemented myself as a white-supremacist. I'll tell you, if that's the case, I'm the darkest white-supremacist ever, but hey, I guess the white Ku Klux Klan sheets will contrast nicely with my skin tone. But I digress.

Obviously I had no intention of saying that the Asian race was inferior to the White. I didn't believe that statement. But for some inexplicable reason, that is exactly what I had meant according to this girl. In her discourse, she explained that by saying what I had, I was practically saying that the ugliest White person is still more physically beautiful than the most aesthetically-pleasing Asian person. Again, not my intention at all. I'm not retarded. I am well-aware that there are plenty of very good-looking Asian people, many of whom look better than their white counterparts.

However, I won't lie: I do not find the Asian race as physically attractive as the White. Simple as that.

If you were to place your average Asian male beside your average White male, and then ask me which of the two I find more physically attractive, the chances are that I would point in the direction of the White man quite definitively. Of course, I don't need to mention that there are aberrations. If you were one of those geeky people, and you set up a simulation of the scenario I described above, you would certainly notice that I would sometimes pick the Asian person. But I do believe that that would be a rare-ish occurrence.

Upon explaining that to the two attacking girls, they seemed unmoved. The just continued bombarding me with their propaganda. I was a racist, and the fact that I would choose the White man more frequently than the Asian only made that point more crystal clear.

Then I brought up something else - Yellow Fever.

If you're young and cool, you'll know what I'm talking about. No, it's not the horrible acute, viral, mosquito-transmitted, hemorrhage-inducing disease. The Yellow Fever I'm talking about is the new dating trend. Basically, and I'm sure your deductive capabilities are strong enough to have figured this out by now, but just in case, I'll spell it out for you: White people who enjoy dating Asian people, for the most part, have Yellow Fever. It's mostly to do with men who date Asian women, but I think it works vice versa as well.

So I innocently asked if having Yellow Fever is a better thing. And, of course, the fury was reactivated and the girls released a resounding "no!" Yellow Fever was no good. But why? If I'm a racist for finding White people generally more attractive, why are the white people that find Asian people more attractive also bad? Well, here's the answer, and I suggest you sit down to take it in because it's profound: Those White people like Asians for all the wrong reasons. These girls know exactly what the White people are thinking, and they were kind enough to lay it out for me: White men believe that Asian women are submissive, and that's why the White men have Yellow Fever. It's not because they actually find Asian ladies more sexually attractive, it's plainly because women of their own race have been too liberated by the feminist movement to be submissive. This is where I cut the conversation off since it was beginning to go off on a tangent about why Asian women aren't submissive and why they need feminism - a contradictory argument in itself. Get it? If they aren't submissive, why would they need feminism?

How did I reign the conversation back in? Simply, I asked the girls the very sophisticated question: What's the big deal?

So what if I don't find Asians more or equally attractive? Why is that such a horribly racist thing to say? I know that you've likely been indoctrinated, as have these girls, with the belief that statements like mine come from a high-and-mighty position from a white-privileged person. But step away from whatever has been drilled into your mind and take the time to give this issue some sober second thought. Just think.

If you walk into an art gallery and tell your friends "I generally don't like Picasso's works. For some reason, cubism just never appealed to me." No one looks at you and calls you a "piece of arrogant shit". People accept that. Aesthetically, you don't find the distinct features of cubism pleasing, and nobody sends you a barrage of insults for that. Why? Because it's just fine for Picasso to not float your boat. If you add on more to your original art critique and say "On the other hand, I love Dali's work; I find it immensely pleasing." No one will call you a bad person for finding Dali's paintings better than Picasso's. It is perfectly acceptable for you to feel that way.

What makes people so much different than art? When you judge the physical beauty of another person, you are using the same sensory functions as when you judge a canvas at the gallery. So why is it bad to not find one certain race as attractive as the other? You're not saying that that race is inferior, you're not saying that they're worse that you, you're not saying anything negative. The only thing that you're saying is that the distinct and typical features of that particular race are not eye-candy for you. And I don't think that there is anything wrong with that.

I think that there is also a subconscious factor that needs to be taken into account during this debate. I'm not sure what it's called, or if it even has a name, but I'll do my best to explain it: Imagine you're a kid in a white family. Your mom and pop are both white, your brother and sister are white, and you are white, too. You live in a predominantly white neighborhood, and most of the people that you see during your daily routine are white. You wake up, and you see your family. You see yourself in the mirror. You go to school or work and see your peers. What does that do to you? Your subconscious makes a note that white is normal. You feel most comfortable and most normal among the white people you've grown up around and amidst. They don't seem foreign to you.

Now, you can move to a place with many people of a different race, and you can accept them, come to enjoy their company and however many more positive things. And you can ask yourself if you find them attractive, and the answer may vary, but if the answer is no, that doesn't make you a racist, does it? You could simply not be used to their distinct appearance, and it could appear to be "foreign" to you. After all, you had really only known one race prior to your move.

So, when my offended friend extended her rant, after I said that my eyes were normal, to including that there is no such thing as "normal", she was wrong again. There most definitely is such a thing as normal, it just happens to vary from person to person. In certain cultures it is completely normal to slurp your food, in others it isn't. In certain places it is just fine to avoid eye contact, in others it isn't. What I would propose alternatively to my friend is that, because the definition of "normal" varies so much from individual to individual, she become accepting to all, or most, definitions, so long as they aren't harmful in some way. And, I think that I have effectively demonstrated that saying a certain thing is "normal" is alright, and should not be considered hurtful.

But, just to reiterate, if Steven called his eyes "normal" and implied that mine were abnormal, I wouldn't be hurt at all. I'd completely understand his stance considering the circumstances under which he was raised.

In my high school, Mandarin was the "normal" language. You heard more Mandarin when you passed through the halls at lunch than you did English. In fact, when I heard too much English on some days, I got a sort of strange, uneasy feeling, as though something wasn't quite right. The same feeling would be present if I walked through the halls and saw a lot of white people. I was perfectly used to standing out as "the tall white girl". In some other school, this definition of normality could be completely different, but that wouldn't make either definition incorrect.

By now, you've made a decision of your own. In your eyes, that question mark that ends the title of this post has evaporated. You either think that I am a racist or you don't, and either opinion is your prerogative to have.

As I was sitting in my sociology class a few days ago, the professor, a raging feminazi, brought up how women weren't on banknotes in the USA. My thought was "who gives a fuck?", but that was starkly opposed by the reaction of the majority of the class. Some girl sitting next to me turned to me to say "Oh my gosh! That just makes me so mad!" I, unmoved by her reaction, simply turned my head and smiled, as to acknowledge her statement. But the girl on my other side was profoundly affected by the statement. She responded to the first girl in question and said "I know, me too! Just to think what women have been through!" Her statement prompted the woman sitting in front of me to join the group therapy by saying "It's like it'll never end! Our struggle for equality just seems impossible!" The first girl responded to her by saying "Oh yeah, and it must be especially hard for you being a black woman." The girl nodded. And that is when something I can never forget happened.

The boy sitting beside the black girl in front of me spoke. He said "I know I'm speaking from a point of total white male privilege, but I can totally sympathize. What men have done to women throughout history is so appalling."

Well, what can I say? I utterly pity him. That poor boy feels like he has to introduce himself into a conversation with "I know I have white male privilege..." As though his opinion is easily voided otherwise. Well, what can I say?

I just wonder if that boy feels like he would be racist if he didn't introduce himself like that. I don't think that would deem him ignorant or racist, but I wouldn't be surprised if the feminazis around me disagreed.

I don't feel like a racist. A lot of my friends are Asian. Steven is a boy I adore and he's Asian. My current boyfriend is Asian. So, I obviously don't have any underlying prejudices or hates against the Asian race, or any race for that matter. But because of my statements on things I've observed, I'm still apparently a racist. How does that happen?

A Chat with my Therapist

You should read Can You Take a Joke - Part 1 before reading this just so that you have some context.

High school was a glistening journey for me. I was socially quite well-off. I endured so few of the problems that children in high school generally do that I think it is fair to call myself lucky. Unlike others, who went through heart ache and bullying and growth spurts and whatnot, I remained in a rested stagnantly in a peaceful bubble of familiarity. My friends stayed the same, my teachers didn't change too much, my social status never trudged through hateful gossip - high school was good to me. Of course, I too saw some adversity, but not nearly as much as I could have. I was largely spared by the vicious claws of society and my high school peers. In fact, up until recently, I had no perception that high school, especially the studious, non-Hollywood-like one which I attended, could have caused anyone any sort of social pressure. (Academically, it was a different story because 98% was an upsetting mark to some.)

Upon attending the prom trip with my 3 friends, my eyes were opened to the obvious struggles which I either blissfully ignored, or was not asked to face. The three of them all despised high school; they argued that elementary was far better. Quite the contrary, in my opinion. I hated elementary school; everyone was rabidly cruel. I arrived in high school with a fresh slate, and loads of luck. By having certain important people take an interest in me, I was propelled up the social ranks and came to be tolerated by all -- at least I think so. Nonetheless, my three girlfriends discussed the torments and adversities they faced almost daily in their partly drunken stupor. I, as best as I could, consoled them with hugs and kisses, though I lacked any personal experiences to share.

Each girl poured her heart out, and when my turn came, I had nothing to say. So, I spoke truthfully and said "high school was really quite alright for me". They, still mostly in tears, blessed me and told me how lucky I was. I nodded faithfully along in hopes that their depression would wear off, as their bodies metabolized the alcohol. It did to some extent. 

We all went to sleep and I hoped that the morning would prove more peaceful and joyous. It did. We went grocery shopping and I made some amazing chicken crepes, which the girls said constituted the best "white person food" of all time. We hiked through a forest during a torrential downpour, which made hiking seem more like a water sport than anything else.

The trail

And though I complained an uncountable number of times that we were going to catch colds and regret our decision to do this hike, I really did enjoy it. As we made our way up and down the trail we discussed the events of the night prior, and we came to the realization that the forest was a safe place to vent. So, into the emptiness, we screamed confessions in hopes that they would help us find closure. 

I had only one confession which I felt warranted my vocal strain into oblivion. That confession was to do about my dislike for the only boy who had caused me significant pain in high school. No, surprisingly, he wasn't a romantic interest at all. He was the romantic interest of my best friend. He, after nurturing a rosy friendship with me and my best friend, woke up one morning and decided that he would not speak to us any longer. He never told us why and we could not unearth any plausible cause except that he was indeed crazy, but after 6 months of silence, he found the nerve to come sit next to me in class and speak to me as if nothing had happened; as if those 6 months had been wiped from the time continuum altogether. I couldn't bear this disrespect and I angrily moved my chair to the farthest corner of the classroom to indicate my disinterest in speaking with him. I hated him.

Despite the sincerest wishes of all of my family and friends to render myself indifferent to him, I couldn't. So, I walked through the hallways of my school and felt a stabbing pain in my chest each time I saw him. I couldn't physically, nor spiritually, bear the burden of the hate I felt for him. There was no logical reason to so passionately dislike him for 2 years of high school, yet I did. I think that the reason why lies in the damage he inflicted onto my enormous ego. He was the only stain on the nearly spotless white t-shirt that was high school to me. For that reason, that stain was evermore visible and ugly. 

I knew that I needed to let that burden go. I needed it desperately, so I sought closure in the forest. I yelled that I hated him and felt remarkably better. As if a certain weight had been alleviated from my shoulders physically. It wasn't the closure I had envisioned, but it was something, and I felt decent enough to go forwards with my life in that way.

After we arrived to our house, blistering cold and wet, I had the absolute pleasure of speaking to the budding psychologist in the group. She, after seeing my only confession, wanted to pick me apart in her scientific way. So began an absurdly long conversation. 

From her perspective, the discussion would provide immense material for the university-psychology papers she would be writing in the fall. From my perspective, the heart-to-heart would possibly find me at peace with the one blemish of high school that I had allowed to cause me unreasonable amounts of fury.

We talked. She insisted that I saw the matter as bigger than it was, which was undoubtedly true. She explained that life would throw a great deal of equal, and even worse, people my way and that the only adequate way to deal with them would be to learn through this experience. She claimed that I'd be quickly somatized by every bad person if I couldn't cope. All this was true, but one question remained: why did someone with as fabulous a high school career as me allow this one negative event to over-shadow my existence? We came to the conclusion that it had something to do with the fact that it was my first time experiencing hardship in high school. Up until that boy, my high school social-life was A+ and my ego could not sustain that extremely unexpected blow. This is where my new psychologist said "God dammit, I hate you. Why did high school have to be so good for you?"

Umm, unprofessional! You never say that to a patient!

Regardless, this is where the discussion took on a lighter tone. We began talking about my triumphs in high school. I was far from the best student, but something about my extroverted nature made my social life very easy. Speaking to people came very naturally to me and I never felt awkward in social situations. This allowed for me to carry myself through the halls with a certain air of dainty happiness. In the words of my new-found and dearly beloved psychologist that air made it ok for me to not wear make up, which is something that the other girls had all done for a long time. Apparently, no matter how I looked, and no matter how dark the circles under my eyes were, I managed to exude enough confidence when I walked through the halls that the dark stains under my eyes would be voided. Thanks for that confidence booster, girl!

My therapist now wanted to explore what exactly made me the extroverted, dainty, happy gal I was since, apparently, high school's purpose was to ravage happy children and create insecure conformists. I couldn't answer her question since I didn't know myself. I told her that I felt that it was simply my nature. Just like some people are born blonde, and others are born brunette, I believe that some are born happy and chatty and others are born sad and quiet. She told me that that wasn't the case. The color of your hair is determined by nature, but your approach to life is determined by aspects of nurture. So, to find out what nurturing brought me to the denouement of high school with a happy glow, my therapist went back... way back.

She asked what I remembered of my days before elementary school. I really didn't remember too much, of course, but what did remain in the crevasses of my brain was exceedingly happy. It is literally sunshine and ice cream cones. I remember waiting for the ice cream truck and turning to my father, who always had the right amount of money in his hand to give me. I would get a pink panther ice cream because it was my favorite. I remember playing on the park, being a little bit of a bully to the other kids when I wanted to play on the things they were playing on. And though I did live in a place with distinct seasons, my only memories are of sunny days. I don't recall any gloomy clouds or rains or snows.

How was my familial relationship? Excellent. I told my therapist that my parents and grandma had never been less than supportive. That was the eureka moment for her! Apparently, Asian parents tell their children that they are bad and dumb and whatnot in hopes that they then feel motivated to do great things. That, for lack of a kinder term, seems fucked up to me. 

My parents always told me that I was a very pretty, very smart and very wonderful little girl. And yes, they repeated it so many times that I came to believe it. Despite my staggering height and my adorable beer-belly, I walked with such an unparalleled fierceness. I went to the beach unaware of the fact that the 2-time-daily jumbo croissant with Nutella was causing me to have a less-than-perfect beach body. My body was ideal - that's what my grandma told me when she slobbered my plate with ridiculous amounts of greasy, but oh-so tasty food. I was the prettiest girl in my school - that's what my dad told me when I asked him if my bowl-haircut looked nice. And I was the smartest kid in my entire school - that's what my mom told me when I justified a bad mark on a spelling test by saying I was just plain stupid. 

So yeah, I guess you could say that I had a really happy childhood. And yeah, that happy upbringing stemmed into a happy future.

But my therapist was not completely content yet. She asked if my relatives still say those things to me and if they still hold the same value to me. The answer was that my relatives obviously still complimented me, but in a lesser degree and less frequently. Of course, as I got older, I did recognize that my beer belly wasn't as hot as I thought. I came to terms with the fact that a bowl-haircut was not "in", nor had it ever been. And it also dawned on me that there were smarter people out there.

Now my psychologist found herself at a bit of a crossroads in her dissection of me. She knew that my ego was quite big, but if my family was no longer providing a consistent flow of praises, who was? My family had simply laid a foundation for the person I was to become. That foundation, however, could have been very easily shaken and even demolished by my external environment. For some reason, it hadn't been, and that was why that strange boy's actions crippled me as much as they did. The reason was right in front of me. 

The darling psychologist asked about my friends. They were nice, of course. In my largely Asian school, it had just so happened that the majority of my friends were not Asian, so perhaps they had similar upbringings and we connected that way. I can't be sure.

My therapist was determined to figure out where my tremendous confidence comes from and so she persisted. Do my friends compliment me? Well, of course! Violetta is a prime example. When I read my blog posts to her, she lauds them as being equivalent to best-sellers. Does she tell me I'm pretty? Yes, sometimes! But, I tell her that too. We're very supportive of each other and enjoy dishing out the praises. I don't think that there's anything wrong with that. Well, my therapist firmly believes that those reciprocal compliments allow us to walk through the halls with out heads held high. That seemed logical, but then I recalled that Violetta had recently begun wearing make up , which meant that the psychological Sherlock Holmes I was sitting with would have to dig even deeper to find what exactly made me so whimsical. And the answer lied in the revelations of this year and the last.

Boys!

Wild, I know! I wonder how we had managed to talk for 3 hours and not touch on that subject, but we did. Now it was 1am. The other two girls were washing the dishes, and though we should've offered help, we were both far too enthralled with our own conversation. In the middle of a sentence, we were interrupted. The other two girls wanted to go star-gazing since it was a clear night. It sounded romantic enough that my therapist and I decided that we could continue our discussion on the dock 15 minutes away, under the endless shimmer of the sky, beside the vast glimmer of the ocean. We all left. Once we made it, we laid down some sleeping bags and began listening to the astronomer of the group. She showed us the big dipper and the little one and a plethora of other constellations and celestial bodies. That was too much education for my therapist and me. We were eager to get back to boys. Oh, how hormonal we sound!

What happened with boys this year? Wow, so much. Like I said at the very start of this post, you should read Can You Take a Joke - Part 1 to get some flavor of my predicament. 

They adored me. Up until last year, really, I was an exclusive friend to basically all boys. They thought I was cool like a guy, but not cool as a girl - if that makes any sense at all. The point is that no one seemed to be interested in me in a romantic way, though I had plenty of male friends who treated me very well. They would ask me for my opinions on girls they were interested in and tell me some of their personal secrets - the types of secrets that you don't want your potential romantic partner to know. I was very comfortable with the position I held with guys, actually. Then last year someone had to see me in a different way and start a perpetual cycle of life-ruining.

Wait a second.

You're not supposed to know that this all accumulates with "life-ruining" - you're still supposed to think everything is rosy and my ego is being boosted. Which is genuinely the case, for the most part. Let's pretend that I haven't definitively foreshadowed the ending of this post, though. That will make it easier to follow. But then again, what is there to follow?

The Broken Proletariat

Did I ever mention that I go to a music school? What a wonderful place that is. I so totally love that music school, that words would do my feelings no justice. It's my fourth year in it, and I will not be applicable for re-entry after I graduate from high school, so I am highly upset by that right now, but it was good while it lasted. 

For four years, I have been in a DJing program. I've learned how to manipulate music software, mix songs, create them, and later spin them up on the turntables. 

This year, things changed slightly. I was put into an extra program on top of the DJing.

It's a band. 

Since my music school teaches many things, they had the smart idea of putting various students into a single band. You have one kid that's a pianist, you have another that's a guitarist, a bassist, a singer and so on. Now, all of these kids take the classes that qualify them as their respective instrumentalists on top of the band class. Of course, as a DJ, I don't fit into a traditional band. I expressed this after being asked to join, but the registration lady assured me that it wouldn't be a problem. She said that if DJing was not malleable enough to be used in the band, the instructor would just do his best to teach me quick bits on other instruments, so that I could be useful. It was worth a shot, so I did it. The instructors at the school are great, classes are free, and the other students are amazing, so I had nothing to lose except an extra 90 minutes each week.

Here's a little about my DJing class: About two years in, I had mastered most of the software stuff, become good at making songs, and become coordinated enough to use the turntables. So, after those two years, my DJing class had morphed into something that I hadn't originally thought it would be - therapy. Yes, I know. But I have an excuse:

See, the school that I go to is on the cushy west side. Money isn't an object and people are, in general, not the best. The school is toxic because everyone's ambition is sky-high. Kids don't sleep; they are too bogged down with APs and SATs. Very few of them can carry a conversation that goes beyond the realm of the school chemistry curriculum. The way they look at me is strange; as if I have some rare blood-condition that makes me terminal. And to them, I am inflicted with the plague of mental-illness. Many of them think, because of my happy-go-lucky attitude, my "hippie-ness", my lack of homework-completion and my excess of blogging (i.e. doing things that don't count towards my grade), I am sick. Yes, to them, I suffer from optimism. It's difficult.

That is why DJing is therapy. I get together with probably the coolest kids in the city. Kids that don't have unhealthy ambition, kids that enjoy their time skateboarding, and kids that are generally content with being kids. We talk and make music, and it's highly relaxing for me. I don't feel like I suffer from a terrible plague when I'm around them, and it's quite nice. So, I look forward to Tuesdays. 

This is why I accepted band class.

What a good decision it was! I learned a little bit about playing synthesizer because I needed to play that for one rendition we played. I learned about piano for something else, and I am presently practising a part on Vibraphone for the song we just wrote. It's great.

We sit together and pool ideas for melodies and lyrics. We play them and we learn other stuff in the process.

Hold on: My absurdly long introduction is not done yet.

Due to my instructor's constant lateness to class, me and my 5 band-mates have a lot of time at the start of class to chat. From what I recall, at the start of this year, none of us knew each other, but we've gotten to know each other decently since then, mostly because of these chats. 

As is customary however, as the year progressed, we formed into smaller groups.

Two of the girls in our class became very close. I became well-acquainted with the lead guitarist. And, the other two band members are usually late of absent, so their presence is scarce in the chat-sessions.

The first class, I met the lead guitarist and he introduced himself. He played guitar well, so that was an automatic big plus. He seemed like a nice person - that's the vibe that he gave off, at least. I began talking to him gradually. It was good. It became fairly usual for us to sit together for an hour after each class and talk. I liked it, and it served as a chance for me to get to know him better.

Now, I know what you're expecting - a love story. But, no, that's not what this is. I'm just trying to give you a feeling of what he's like.

He's a nice type of guy. Really. He isn't quiet, but most of what he says is intended to be a joke. He is so frequently sarcastic that I have found it difficult at times to distinguish between his serious statements and his sarcastic statements. I most vividly remember the first night that he decided to take the bus in my direction: He made a joke, which I took seriously, so I corrected him in his fallacy. This is laughable. After I began elaborating on the mistake he had made, he looked at the ground in sad silence, and said "I was making a joke. I keep trying and you just keep knocking me down." That I do. I was sad at my stupidity and at his sadness so I laughed nervously and told him I'd do my best to differentiate between his jokes and serious declarations in the future. 

Another time, I recall him joking that his grand father is Obama.

Best of all, I remember one of the first nights we talked, when he very openly showed me that he has diabetes. Diabetes is awful. Apparently diabetics have insulin pumps attached to their, well, asses. And no, I don't mean their pet donkeys, I mean their butts. How do I know that? Because he showed me!

One of the first classes we talked, I offered him a hard-boiled quail egg. He told me that he hated eggs, but I insisted that quail eggs were completely different and that he should really try one. Kindly enough, he did. He bravely put that whole miniature eggs in his mouth, and then his face cringed. He looked horrible. His cheeks swelled, so as to make ample space in his mouth so that he wouldn't have to swallow the currently chewed-up egg. I was laughing, but eventually managed to push through the giggles to tell him that his is welcome to spit it out. Without hesitation, he turned his back to me and spat out the egg with vigour. I apologized for causing him pain, all while laughing at him. I offered to make it up to him by baking something actually decent for him and the rest of the class. I asked what he likes to eat. He couldn't think of anything, so he said "good ole cookies". Then he told me he had diabetes.

That scared me because I didn't know what diabetes meant. I asked if he could still eat cookies and he said "yeah. I can eat anything". I inquired if that would cause his sugar to skyrocket and thereby cause him to be dead in band class. To that, he very proudly pulled the backside of his pants down a little to expose part of his ass. There, a little plastic tube sticked out. He pulled the little tube, which led him to his pocket where a small cassette-player-like object lived. It was his pump. He told me that he just presses a button after a meal, and the machine does the rest for him. So cookies it was!

Eventually, the often-absent girl in our band asked me about my relationship with this guitarist guy. I told her that we just talk, she expressed regret at that and told me that she "ships" us. I had to go to Urban Dictionary to find out what that means. It means that she endorses a relationship between us. Well.

Then some other random guy in our music school, but not in our band class, asked us if we were dating. The answer was no. The boy has a girlfriend. See? I told you that no romantic love was involved.

As of late, the boy doesn't accompany on the bus anymore; he goes the opposite way, but we still talk a lot before class. 

The boy was nice enough to help me once. We were all learning how to play drums: Being the uncoordinated and pathetic creature that I am, I couldn't manage to play the slightest rhythm on the chair we were hitting with sticks. The time came when the teacher requested that we all give the rhythm a try on the real drum kit. I didn't want to try. The teacher didn't notice, which had meant I had gotten away with being pathetic on a personal level only. Then the boy asked me if I had tried, I told him honestly because I thought that it wouldn't matter to him at all. I was wrong, because then, the boy did something unlike himself and shot his hand up to inform the teacher that I hadn't tried the real drums. The teacher then made me get up and play. In hindsight, I am happy that he did that. I played better on the kit than on the chair anyways. So thanks to the diabetic guy for that!

All this is fine. I've spent ridiculously long creating a great image of the protagonist of my post. Now that we've all agreed that he's a fabulous fellow, let's talk about what he said. His statements on this Tuesday panged at my heart, and some uncontrollable urge forced me to write about them. Perhaps I subconsciously want to return the favour that he did for me by ratting on me to get me to play drums and do something new. Regardless, I feel inclined to tell his story.

Now, the introduction is over and the real story begins, so get ready!

This Tuesday we were talking as per usual. Under the most absolutely average of circumstances, this diabetic boy, who I shall call Sugars herein, mentioned a job. Just plainly, like every other teenager ever, Sugars told me that he has work on the weekend, or sometime soon.

Up until that moment, the two of us had been discussing our futures beyond high school. From very early into the year, Sugars had told me that he had no intention of going to university because school "wasn't for [him]". He had also structured his classes in such a way that entrance into university would be close to impossible. He was only taking 5 out of 8 classes, one of which was Planning 10 (a class that everyone took in grade 10, but that he had somehow managed to evade up until now). The rest of his classes consisted loosely of various courses that his counsellor had assured him would be easy. Sugars, in fact, had so little ambition that he complained about taking Geology 12. According to him, the counsellor had told him that the class would require little to no effort. The counsellor's words, however, seemed to have been proven false, since there was apparently some minimal workload in existence in the class. Other than Geology and the mandatory course of English 12, Sugars was taking classes like Soccer (a real class apparently), PE, and Art, or something like that.

He does like soccer! He considers Luis Suarez, a rotweiler in human form, to be the best player in the world right now. The man bites people quite regularly - am I the only one that sees something wrong with that? Attacking aside, I'm still quite certain that there are better players out there. I'm not qualified enough to put forth other players, or rather, I'm not knowledgable enough to, but I'm sure that some readers out there may have logical reasons for picking some other players over Suarez.

But I digress.

When the topic came back on this day, I asked what he planned on doing past high school if not university. He wanted to work. I wanted to know where. He expressed a desire to begin working with his mother or his father, so that he could get paid beyond minimum wage. He was hopeful that he could climb aboard his dad's ship as a set-designer. This would pay about 20$/hour. This was better than minimum wage. This all sounded very nice. Though unclear, it was the skeleton of a plan. It was whimsical and optimistic, of course, but I wouldn't expect any less from Sugars.

Here's another side-note: A little while ago, I was talking to a friend, who coincidentally happened to "Prompose" a week ago, I proposed the idea of not going to university to him. He took this as blasphemy. Then, after I nudged him slightly, he appeared to become more accepting of the idea, even though I think that he was faking his acceptance to please me. He claimed that anyone who didn't have an absolutely perfect plan for the future had to go to post-secondary education. Not doing so would qualify you as an idiot. This was my promposal-provider's theory. I didn't, and still don't, agree with it. Sugars only served to further reassure my convictions. I'm sure he'll be OK, even with his not-so-foolproof plan. Where's the fun in certainty anyways?

That's the end of my side-note.

After Sugars told me his plan, he asked what I was going to study in university. When I said "Arts", and he gave me a sort of thumbs up. It was a welcome change from what everyone else had been telling me. I know what you're thinking - "Nat! Please let me know what everyone else had been telling you! I can't figure it out myself!" Oh, well, OK, I guess I could do that for you. How benevolent I am.

So, let me sum that up for you in the form of one joke that my dear friend told me about Arts: "What's the difference between an Arts degree and a bench?"

Think.

"A bench can support a family."

Laugh. It's OK, I did.

Sugars didn't have that sentiment, and it was, to me, therapeutic to be finally in an environment where people were relaxed enough to not hassle me about my program decision. But Sugars did inquire if there was anything I would rather be doing, and I told him the truth. The dream is to open a café, which has a ceramics workshop in the back. I make all of the cups and plates that the coffee I make gets served on.

He smiled and actually supported my idea. Again, what a welcome alternative to the laughs that I generally get when I mention my dream. Sugars said that I should do that because it wouldn't even require too much money, and because he would come in for coffee every day, which would pay off the loans. It was wonderfully relieving. But then I turned the attention back to him. I asked him what his current minimum wage job was.

Guess. It should be your first guess regardless of where in the world you're reading this from.

McDonald's. The Golden Arches employed Sugars.

As soon as he said this, he started to tell me a story, but very quickly, he stopped himself and, with slight giggling said, "nah, never mind, you don't want to hear it anyways." But I insisted and so he continued.

He then proceeded to tell about his adventures, the first of which was to clean vomit from the sink in the bathroom. As I would soon find out, the majority of problems in McDonald's do regard the washroom. This, I guess, is perfectly logical. I would like to point out, however, that a large part of this is likely thanks to the clientele which frequent McDonald's. Let's all be real here: rich people from my part of town go to McDonald's rarely - they're rather preoccupied with finding new ways to incorporate kale into their diets. People looking for cheap and quick, those are the people that go to McDonald's. Likewise, they are likely the people that make the clean up in McDonald's bathrooms so unpleasant. I recognize that what I just said was completely hoity-toity, rich, west-side girl-speak. I recognize that I just put down the lower class, but I am still a decent person because I have dedicated this massive post, in its entirety to speaking up for them.

Back to barf:

Cleaning puke? More like inducing it. That's the only thought that could possibly simmer in my brain while he told me about that.

I, personally, have never had to clean puke, and I don't think that I have ever even seen puke in a public place. I would imagine that every time I came close to dealing with some sort of bodily fluid, I avoided it at all costs. Even when I was to blame for the mess, I never had to deal with it. Once, I spat out an enormous amount of juice onto my hardwood floor. I didn't flinch because I knew that it wasn't my place to deal with it. My mother and grandmother very quickly began mopping up my mess, while I just sat back. In fact, the only request they put forth was for me lift my feet, so that they could get under them. So, can I sympathize with Sugars? No, but I can only theorize that the experience must have been putrid.

Have you ever heard the expression "It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it"? Of course you have. But I would advocate that an extension be added onto that idiom, which would make it read "It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it, and that's exactly why they should be paid a lot." I know that it doesn't have the same ring to it, but I do believe that it sounds a fair bit more rational and coherent.

Once Sugars had completed his vomit story, he started a new one - one about feces. Now, I'd like to explain to you that the manner in which Sugars told these stories made them sound as if they were perfectly common and acceptable in nature, which they obviously weren't in my socio-economic situation. He simply listed them off as if they were ingredients on a shopping list. He would say "One time, I had to..., and then another time, I had to..." I found it mesmerizing.

So yes, let me tell you about how someone smeared their poop all over a stall in the McDonald's bathroom, and left it to Sugars to clean. Wait, no, let me not tell you because it really is a graphic tale. Instead, let me tell you this: The rich corporate bureaucrats of McDonald's are surely uninterested and unenthusiastic at the prospect of cleaning shit, so why not pay more? Being the smarty I am, I'll answer the question I just posed: Because the proletariat is uneducated and doesn't bother creating uproar at the tasks they are being asked to complete. The worker, in this case sweet Sugars, speaks about his job as something completely reasonable to be doing for minimum wage. That's just how his circumstances have raised him. Ridiculous.

OK, so at one point, he does coyly and blushingly acknowledge that he performs these menial tasks for minimum wage, but it doesn't faze him. Alright, perhaps it does faze him, but he's learned to swallow his pride, and every other negative feeling that I imagine would be insinuated by cleaning vomit - and that is exactly what the big guys want.

If I was asked to clean turd off a wall, I would utilize my noodle-arms to knock a person out. I wouldn't take it. Imagine me as a McDonald's employee: what a failure that would be. Now imagine all the employees of McDonald's being like me: Well, that's the end of the golden arches.

But now turn your attention to the men with small penises in the big velvet chairs: ask them what the price for their manicured hands to be adequately submerged into their customers' bodily fluids is. I can guarantee you that if the answer isn't "priceless", it's a number pretty close to there. How strange is that?

Sugars gleams at the notion of making 20$/hour working as a manual labourer for the VSB, and I feel immense sadness and pity for him because I already make more than that as an English/debate/political tutor to the children of the elite. But what can I do? Nothing, my words fall on deaf ears, and bring no change. Because people don't like change.

See, if the status quo isn't seeing Sugars starving, then Sugars doesn't see a reason to rebel. In fact, I'd argue that, even if Sugars began to trudge through difficulties, he'd keep quiet, or coyly and blushingly speak. And that is meaningless. It's happened all throughout history - nobody rebels until they're on the brink.

But, it's different here: What has really happened is that the whole invisible system has made Sugars a-okay with hardship. For him, it's just a part of normal existence. Some willingness to rage against the machine has, inexplicably, been broken inside. Maybe it's due to the lack of education, maybe it's because of his allowances growing up, and maybe it's just because he doesn't feel bothered enough to revolt. I can't speak to that, but neither can he because he isn't sure himself.

His revolts are limited to smoking weed in some parks and going out late at night to do stupid things. For him, those stupid things are small doses of opium that make him feel as if he's made his voice heard - the graffiti, the weed, and everything in between. And they're all pointless. But that's the niche that society has asked Sugars to fulfill and he, as the predominantly obedient citizen he is, has performed his task. And maybe he has done so because society has punished him for the trivialities like his marijuana and graffiti and told him that, because he was naughty, he should pay by cleaning shit. And there's the painful double standard because when however few wolves of Wall Street destroyed the lives of however many regular people, they were rewarded with a bailout.

Something makes it hopeless here in Vancouver and I don't know what it is. You would think that, because we have so many hipsters, because we're right on the west coast, and because we're stereo-typed as "so progressive", we'd be immune to the class divide, but we aren't. In fact we're so far from it that, when I take the bus home from my music class, and exit the uneasy East and enter the cushy West, I pass a large neon sign that reads "Let's heal the divide". That horrid divide that makes some completely comfortable with cleaning shit, and others incapable of imagining shit. I don't think that the citizens of any other country in the world would tolerate having the poorest postal code in their country be bordered by the richest, as is the case here. Yet somehow, in some highly potent way, the wretchedly poor do not exit their postal code to disturb the rich, and they don't feel the need to say anything against the situation because they're accustomed to it.

It seems to me that, in the West (and this time I mean the developed nations of the world, not just the West-side of Vancouver), minimum wage jobs are the equivalents of mandatory military service. And, of course, only the lower class needs to serve in this system of living. I know, from stories, that, when my father was serving his military service in his country, he did have to do vomit-inducing jobs, like cleaning poo. But the difference lies in one subtlety: Sugars is cleaning poo for the benefit of the rich, my father was cleaning poo for the benefit of the entire nation - all classes included.

In summation, Sugars is a great kid, who I praised excessively because he deserved it. My music school is wonderful on so many levels. And most importantly, the proletariat in the West has become so heavily broken and burdened by the opulent beasts of capitalism that drastic measures are in line.

When and if I live to see the revolution, I'd like to use this post as proof of my loyalty. Thanks.

It's a Phase - A Sort of Epilogue to the Previous (yet ongoing) Series

I'm one of those children (well, now I'm an adult! Yes, I turned 18 a couple weeks ago, so this post, though being pretty "meh", is a big deal considering it is my first post written as an ADULT!) who tells their parents a lot about the social situations at school. I've looked to my parents for guidance ever since I was young, but in a strange way. What I mean is that I rarely disclose information relating to myself to my parents; I always tell them about other kids. In a way, it's my mechanism for proving to them how superior I am as a child to the rest of the children my age. It demonstrates to them that they were apt enough to raise the most profoundly intellectual, talented and fantastical creature known to man. 

Now, obviously, I am not the most profoundly intellectual, talented and fantastical creature known to man. I'm pretty standard. I may be a little taller than everyone else, a little darker than your average pasty white person, and a little better at writing, but in the grand scheme of it, I'm just an Average Joe. But, I've always felt a duty to portray myself as better than I am. Once you decide upon painting yourself to be great, you have basically two options for how to do it: Option 1 is to work... really hard. Work to sincerely achieve greatness. I've never been too fond of work - I've always found it terribly difficult and tiring. So, I always pick option 2: to paint the mass as wretched, and therefore come across as incredible yourself, relative to the crowd. Let's put this into simpler terms, since that sentence was incoherent and I can't think of a way to change it to make it logical-sounding: If everyone else is a meth-head, and you're just a marijuana-using-stoner, you're not too shabby, right? 

In a sense, and correct me if I am wrong here, but every child wants to seem good in their parents' eyes. Unless, of course, you're in some rebellious phase. And though this, paired with the title, may make you believe that I am about to tell you about various teenage "phases", I'm not. This was just a long digression, meant to serve as an introduction.

I have this friend. He goes to a different school, but we keep in touch occasionally through messages, and calls, and whatnot. We're not best friends, but I know what's happening in his life to some extent through what he tells me, what peers tell me, and the conclusions I draw based on various things. What's so special about this darling friend of mine? He started experimenting with drugs and alcohol sooner than anyone else. Most kids start their -as I like to call it- "substantial-awakening" (it's ironic, because I'm referring to "substances", but I say "substantial", which has a polar-opposite connotation!) in their mid-high school years. Grade 10 is the usual time that kids try their first stuff(s). That is general. My friend started his in grade 8. He attended a school that was a perfect breeding ground for negative things like those aforementioned. Both of us are now in grade 12, albeit in different schools.

From grade 8 to grade 12, my friend has been trying a plethora of drugs, strains, and drinks, observing how they made him feel. (I realize that I just made that sound as if he was doing all these drugs in the name of research.) He tried "molly, shrooms and weed" at the same time one night, and got "really fucked up". That's just one example. He's had nights where he has been paralyzed with drug-induced fears. Nights where he's been practically immobile from the "vibes" of certain strains of weed. And, nights where he has felt really great. None of these nights were isolated incidents.

If you're older, that statement may not make sense, but let me explain: You have two types of drug-users in schools: There are the ones that take drugs every few months, at parties and such, and then there are the ones that take drugs all the time. My friend belonged to the latter category.

There was a period, towards the end of the last school year that he tried to get off the stuff(s). He decided to quit smoking pot every night before bed. It was difficult for him. Up until him, I had only seen withdrawal effects in movie characters, like Christian Bale in The Fighter. To be quite honest, up until then, I had also believed that marijuana wasn't even a real drug, and that one couldn't become dependant on it. But I was wrong. (Before I continue, let me clarify that my friend's withdrawal was not nearly as gruesome as Christian Bale's in the movie.)

Apparently, if you "blaze" every night, your heart becomes used to marijuana slowing it down and your brain becomes used to pot putting it to sleep. Once you get off the weed, your body finds it hard to put itself to sleep without the aid of the cannabis. Now that you know this, before reading on, take a moment to imagine what could happen to one if they suddenly stopped smoking the dank cush after smoking it almost religiously for an extended period of time.

I'm glad you thought about it.

Now, I'll provide the right answer to you, and you can compare it with your own: you cannot sleep. That's the answer. So, my friend began looking like a walking corpse. He was pale, and his eyes were bloodshot, and he was horrendously tired.

Some nights, I stay up late because I'm doing something stupid and I wake up after about 7 hours of sleep. I feel tremendously tired, and I say things like "oh man, this sucks, nobody sleeps less than me!". But, of course, that's just my silly teen angst talking and people do sleep less than me. The point is that I can't function with less than 9 hours of sleep. In front of me, however, was my friend who was attempting to function on no sleep. He disclosed to me that he hadn't slept for 2 days straight, and that he was, therefore, feeling pretty bad. I couldn't fathom his situation.

He was proud that he had stopped smoking, but at the same time, he was in a zombified state. So, I suggested that he maybe smoke a little bit that night just to come to his senses. It's a very paradoxical statement, you know? He reminded me that I was the one that, just a few days prior, "with sad eyes", told him that maybe he should lay off the drugs. OK, sure, I said that, but I hadn't adequately recognized the consequences. It's easy for me to dish out advice. I've never been dependant on drugs. For me, the notion of quitting cannabis is about as daunting as brushing my teeth (i.e. not at all daunting). I didn't know that it could lead to this current picture. I explained that to him, but he was too proud to succumb back to the grass, and moreover, he was regarding the whole situation as a sort of game. I had told him to quit, he had decided to, and now he just couldn't allow himself to give in to the temptation - some sort of strange spite. He confided in me that he was now going to gradually fix himself. He would first quit smoking daily, lowering the frequency to weekly, after which he'd lower the frequency more etc..

It was a seemingly good plan because, after each weekend, he'd come to school looking refreshed. In his own words, he "hibernated during the weekends." Things were looking up! He was now "turning up" only once in a while. Once the school year ended, he reassured me that he'd keep up the good work in the new year, and only do drugs every so often, for special events. This was a better-than-expected outcome.

But naturally, he relapsed the next school year, and, after I found out, he justified it to me as his way of "just tryin ta have fun". Only, this year, he wasn't just taking just weed; it had escalated to peculiar concoctions of chemistry. Oh well. I was a little disappointed. I think it's hard to be quite upset with someone when you don't see them regularly. I just expressed my discontent with a sad face emoji, and promised to not patronize him any further. He was a little saddened by my remarks, but it wasn't anything a little chemistry couldn't fix. I thought that that was it. I thought that his fate was sealed.

I explained this whole situation to my parents. Unlike my sister, who firmly claimed that, by hanging out with such a guy, I myself was becoming a druggie, my parents were more moderate. They understood, or at least trusted, that I was not an idiot to be pulled into this perpetual whirlwind of better living through chemistry.

Through discussing it with them, I came to a lightbulb moment. I realized that there was, like with everything, a potential blessing in disguise to my friend's current troubles. My wise mother even agreed with me.

You see, now, in grade 12, a lot of kids who you'd never expect to be interested in drugs and alcohol, begin to show their true colors. At this delicate transition from high school to the supposed "real world", these kids are starting to find relief in numbing their stresses and pains with substances. This is dangerous because it sets them up for failure at an important stage - the stage that could potentially determine their futures comforts. (Good university = good job = good life). When the drug-loving phase passes for these new-drug-experimenters, there is a chance that many important things will pass them by.

But look at my friend: His drug phase is already starting to wear off. I know for a fact that he is going to less parties, using less drugs and generally leading a healthier life. It's almost as if his substantial-awakening was a phase, and is now nearing the end of its existence. Who would have guessed that someone so seemingly enamored with the party-life would live to eventually see it lose its lustre? It's so funny because just as everyone else's love of drugs is ramping up and going wild, his is decaying. I imagine it as two urns: Each urn is respectively filled -to a different extent- with the juice of party-loving. One urn belongs to my friend, and the other belongs to everybody else. It's as if his urn is draining, and each drop that it spills, plops beautifully into the other urn, fuelling everyone else's desires to get numb and wasted.

So maybe that is the benefit of doing all of that reckless stuff when you're young - you have nothing to lose.

As for my friend, well, he's doing decently. He is definitely uninterested in university. In fact, that ship has sailed for him (application dates for respectable universities have passed). But, his plan of becoming an electrician is still valid and possible. The application for that hasn't passed. And, his prospects are looking up. His interest in doses and mimosas continues to lessen, and his plainness and simplicity of life continues to increase. I'm interested to see how he turns out. I have a feeling that, in a few years, when most of my old peers are found passed out in fraternity bathtubs, my friend will be hard at work fixing wires (or whatever it is that electricians do) with drug-crazed nights in the deepest crevasses of his mind. He'll be a typical worker, and the most calm, plain, mature and normal of us all. That's all just predictions, of course.

He's slowly on the path to a negative urine test, and a positive life. And that's all that I, and his parents, can hope. 

Merry Macarons!

Well, the festive season is one famous for bringing about change. People make new year's resolutions; they try to fix the supposed ills in either their characters or their bodies or their lives. Now, you probably think that this post is going to be one that explains why I'm so irked by new year's resolutions, but you're wrong. No, I am irked by new year's resolutions, but I'm not going to write about that particular subject right now.

In light of the holiday season, I'm going to do something out of the ordinary myself! I'm going to share something more than grievances with you! I'm going to share the sweeter, more-human side with you, and I hope you don't mind it.

It may be hard to believe that even I have a soul, but it's true. Sometimes, and only sometimes, I like to put criticizing aside and do something cute, like bake! Actually, at one point during this summer, I strongly considered going to Paris after high school to become a chef. That is a true fact. And, well, after I look at how these turned-out, it might just be a good idea!

Often, I actually cook huge (like, 10-course) meals for my family or friends. You can see proof of that on my mom's blog. But, last night, my mom informed me that she had bought almond meal. Being that it's the prime ingredient in Macarons, I decided to try my luck by making them! And, I'm quite pleased with how they turned out. Macarons are difficult to make, but these turned out surprisingly well. I found the recipe on the French cooking site "Marmiton". That's where my knowledge of French came in handy. I was able to correctly read and interpret the recipe to make the beautiful macarons I did!

So, to break the saturation of whining posts here, here's a glimpse of what I made! Note that I put great effort into both the making of the macarons, and the photographing of the macarons. I tried to make them look very magazine-esque.

Now the recipe said to use red food coloring, but being the radical rebel I am, I used blue! Blue has zero to do with the filling flavors I chose. Oh yeah, here's a note: macaron shells are all the same, what differs them is the filling.

Now, I tried to make an Earl grey filling because that happens to be my favorite. Unfortunately, I failed at doing so, so I resorted to safer options. I made three different fills and they all turned out pretty good. The fills were: Lemon Curd, Chocolate and Blackberry.

I've made lemon curd before, so doing it again was no fuss. Making the chocolate filing was super easy because I just tempered some chocolate. And, the blackberry filling was actually making use o the blackberry jam I made over the summer. Right! You probably don't know this! Every summer, I go to Stanley Park and I pick blackberries. I make a jam out of them, and I preserve it in Mason jars. My father loves the jam because there's no nothing added. Literally, it's just blackberries. I made a lot of jam in the summer, so I still have jars left in the fridge. Yes, it's almost January, but my jam is a well-made preserve, so it is still good. Yesterday, when I took it out of the fridge, it was perfectly tasty. The macarons were delicious with it.

There was only one problem with the entire thing, and that was baking time. I made three batches of macarons, and one batch ended up a little over-done. Nonetheless, it was a quite a good little bake, and it was highly therapeutic to me to busy myself with such whimsical sweetness!

Thanks for reading! Maybe I'll post some more stuff like this here later.